Page 182 of The Call of Crimson
“I can’t decide whether I want to worship or punish you right now,” he growls.
“Maybe a bit of both?” I suggest sheepishly.
“That sounds like us,” he whispers as his eyes heat, the crimson flecks blazing to life.
“We’re not allowed to do that anymore.” I drunkenly giggle. “Ayden says?—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Ayden says,” he cuts me off.
Ayden is standing now and shoving his way between us. Roughly, he pulls me from Aurelius’ arms, keeping me cradled in his own, as he bites out, “Thank you, brother, for catching my fiancée. I’ve got her from here.”
Without waiting for a response, Ayden brushes past him, carrying me back toward the castle.
“I can walk, you know,” I grumble, kicking my legs in protest.
“Oh, I know. That’s not what this is about,” he says, smirking.
“Stupid male bullshit,” I grumble.
“Stupid male bullshit, indeed.”
It takes us a few minutes to reach the castle, but by the time we arrive, I’m already yawning. He sets me down once inside and walks me to his room.
I reach for the door, ready to collapse into bed.
“Sleep well, love. We have training tomorrow,” he says with a snicker, stripping down to his night clothes.
I groan. “I’m not coming.”
“It’s only training with your projection. You don’t have to face Darian hungover.”
“That’s not a reassurance. I’m still not coming,” I yawn in protest as I slip into his bathing chamber to change into my nightgown.
When I return, Ayden’s already in bed, the soft glow of a Faerie light casting golden shadows over his face.
“I don’t recall giving you a choice,” he says, brow arched smugly.
“Then you’ll have to drag me there,” I reply, shrugging as I climb into bed. “Good night, Ayden.”
“Good night, Princess.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
OPHELIA
“Ophelia,” Elijah shudders, my name sounding like both a prayer and damnation.
My tongue swirls around the head of his cock, his length bobbing in and out of my mouth as I hollow my cheeks around him. With a wet pop, I release him, stroking up and down his length slowly.
Lust-filled brown eyes meet mine in a desperate plea for more.
“Please, baby. I need to be inside you,” he begs, his voice husky.
I swing a leg over his hips, lifting my nightgown and seating myself just above his length. He palms my breast, slipping the thin material down to expose my heated flesh.
Weeks have passed without the feel of him between my legs, surviving on the sparse kisses as we passed one another in the hall. The number of refugees flooding the capital has grown exponentially, keeping us apart during the day and leaving ustoo exhausted for anything but sleep once we finally come together at night.
I have had enough of it.
